


You Can Ring My Bell

by cognomen, MayGlenn



Series: Greatest Hits of the Seventies [1]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode Tag: Death Ride, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Past Threesome, Period-Typical Homophobia, Progressive Seventies Dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-16 10:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13634253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: “Do you think Detective Williams is having a good time in Paris?” Starsky asks, as if utterly attuned to Hutch’s thoughts. Or at least some of them, given the casual way his tone conveys the information. An upward flick of his eyes to measure the effects of what's Hutch’s Lovestruck Level of the Day is a clue to how involved he actually is in the answer.It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it; but they had a pretty intense job. It provided a lot of excuses for Starsky to not interrogate his personal life too hard. So what if last week this time they’d all three of them been rolling around in Hutch’s ridiculous love nest without thinking too critically about whatever that meant.It was good though. Starsky can uncritically admit that.“Yeah,” Hutch says, gazing wistfully at a point past Starsky’s halo of curls that for once aren't commanding his full attention. That was quite a night, having both of them in his bed like they'd done it a hundred times.You two are wonderful together,she had said, before and after.





	You Can Ring My Bell

This is normal. It is. Nights at Hutch’s place (because he insists Starsky’s kitchenette is ‘a travesty,’ even though it has a full service fridge and an economy stove) where Starsky chokes down whatever tofu surprise Hutch trots out from his ‘joyless cooking’ book, telling himself it’s more about the company.

He even manages mostly not to complain. At least about the _tofu_. “You know, I get the whole health-food thing, partner, but would it kill you to use a little salt?”

Pushing the lump over onto his plate he unearths spinach and feels his appetite wither up inside him like one of those shrunken apples you carved faces in on Halloween. The better part was Hutch moving confidently in his kitchen, trying to sell this property or that property, but never quite fully settling. Next time, Starsky tells himself, he’ll talk Hutch into going out.

Not that out is any better. Hutch’s place is so put together, compared to his own. A level of professionalism that suggested he decorated with purpose. Starsky tilts his chair back just to watch Hutch in the kitchen, rather than thinking about his interior decorating.

“I’m not spending my paycheck on poison,” Hutch says airily, trying not to let himself be offended by Starsky’s picky eating—no, not picky—not picky _enough_ , really. He slams a salt shaker from his spice rack onto the counter. “Enjoy your high blood pressure, partner.”

“I’ll have you know my doctor says I’m in perfect shape,” Starsky tells Hutch, and it is mostly true. He figures he gets enough exercise from their job that he might as well enjoy what he eats.  “Besides, how would I enjoy living forever if I couldn’t have any salt?”

They’re as good at being fussy with each other as they are being gentle with each other, like brothers, or more—definitely more—and once Starsky takes the salt, sprinkles some on his food, and actually begins to eat this time, any tension dissipates. Hutch even grins.

“You want another beer? Or maybe some water. How about staying hydrated?”

Now he sounds like his mother, or his wife.

“You and my ma should get together on the phone,” Starsky says, flashing a grin at Hutch over his plate. He was hungry enough to eat this stuff. “You could divide up the territory you’re gonna cover and flank me from all sides. I’ll have another beer, please, if you’re offering. And don’t get up, I’ll get it.”

He gestures toward the unoccupied chair at the table, indicating his hostess should sit and enjoy his meal. “Before your salad gets cold.”

Hutch sits with a laugh, and lets his partner get him a beer from the cooler, feeling very domestic. He is still wearing an apron, anyway.

“Your ma _loves_ me,” Hutch said, his mouth full. He likes the dish, and decides Starsky’s tastebuds have been killed off by his chili obsession. “She'd definitely agree with me.”

Starsky doesn’t disagree. She and Hutch definitely conspired against his eating habits from time to time.

He was pretty sure she told him, that one year he went back with Starsky for her birthday, that if he and Starsky ever stopped being partners, he was still invited for the holidays.

Their fingers brush as Starsky brings him a beer, and Hutch isn't sure if he blushes when it happens. He shouldn't, they're like this all the time. But after last week…

“Do you think Detective Williams is having a good time in Paris?” Starsky asks, as if utterly attuned to Hutch’s thoughts. Or at least some of them, given the casual way his tone conveys the information. An upward flick of his eyes to measure the effects of what Hutch’s Lovestruck Level of the Day is a clue to how involved he actually is in the answer.

It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it; but they had a pretty intense job. It provided a lot of excuses for Starsky to not interrogate his personal life too hard. So what if last week this time they’d all three of them been rolling around in Hutch’s ridiculous love nest without thinking too critically about whatever that meant.

It was good though. Starsky can uncritically admit that.

“Yeah,” Hutch says, gazing wistfully at a point past Starsky’s halo of curls that for once aren't commanding his full attention. That was quite a night, having both of them in his bed like they'd done it a hundred times. _You two are wonderful together,_ she had said, before and after.

“Hey, how do we get us a gig like that, huh? Get paid to go to Paris. _You're_ pretty enough.”

Starsky scoffs into his food, and has the presence of mind to finish chewing, glad to have a distraction from his own wandering thoughts. He’d seen Hutch naked about a thousand times by now, it was just practical. No sense being uncomfortable about it. But he’d never quite noticed the way his body curved toward his hips when he laid down.

“I think we’d have to stop being so good at our jobs,” Starsky opines, after swallowing. “That’s the trouble, you and I are just too good to go on vacation.”

Hutch grins fondly at Starsky, pretty Starsky who deals with a compliment by hamming it up. “Maybe you're right.”

They brush hands again—no awkwardness, or none obvious, just their usual seeking contact from the other—when Hutch picks up the dishes and they wash and dry together.

“You wanna see what's on the tube or something?” Hutch asks, when he sees Starsky go for another beer. “You know if you have another, I won't let you drive home tonight. You'll be stuck here or walking.”

“Say, when are you gonna update your couch to a sleeper anyways?” Starsky wonders, as if it was a novel concept. “Don't all those girls complain about the springs in their back?”

Giving Hutch a lewd wink, Starsky cracks open his beer with a confident motion, resigning himself to a night here, or an attempt to talk his way back out the door when the time came. Truth be told, he didn’t have anywhere else to be, and there wasn’t an early morning shift waiting for them, anyway.

“Not usually,” Hutch answers evenly, but has to back out of the stare when he adds, “and you didn’t complain last Friday!”

Last Friday was when Starsky was in _his bed_ , and just the memory of it made Hutch’s cock warm in interest, though he steadfastly ignores it and sits down in his usual spot on the couch, reaching for the remote to see what movies or shows are on. They mostly agree on TV and love going to movies together, so he begins flicking through the channels, and pats the seat next to him when Starsky joins him.

“Guess I didn’t,” Starsky says, in a highly distracted tone as he watches Hutch relax down into the couch, the curve of his shoulder a tempting target. Starsky settles his hands there almost absently, rubbing some of the tension he can almost feel in his own shoulders out. Hutch almost melts into it, the way his body had responded to Starsky’s caresses a week ago. The muscle memory under his fingers is enough to leave _Starsky_ blushing this time.

He takes his hands back in favor of hopping the couch back to settle onto the space Hutch is patting before he can fully get his hand out of the way, and they bounce a minute, and he catches the foaming beer with his mouth, making a rude slurping noise to keep it from spilling as he settles into place.

Hutch eyes him sidelong, but Starky doesn’t spill a drop, and he’s kinda kidlike and cute, so he doesn’t say anything—but he does pat Starsky’s knee, and slides a hand down his leg to wrench his shoes off.

“Okay, we got a _Godzilla_ movie, looks like, or _Sole Survivor_.” The latter looks a little serious, though, and not to either of their tastes, when something fun is on. “Or, I dunno. _Family Feud_?”

“Hmm,” Starsky says, considering the options. He sets the beer aside. “You know what? You pick. I’m easy.”

Not strictly true, but true in this circumstance. Starsky tucks his feet up under him, comfortable, eyes gluing to the TV because it’s providing him an excuse not to look at Hutch for like ten seconds. Then his eyes slide away, as he sets the empty can aside, and to the blue light reflecting on Hutch’s face, on his hair. On the way he looks in the dim, and an absent smile curls on Starsky’s features, just all soft affection.

Hutch leaves it on _Godzilla_ , and they figure out it’s actually _Son of Godzilla_ on the commercial break. He pretends not to catch Starsky staring at him just like Starsky pretends not to see him staring back, but he does reach into a drawer on the endtable.

“Got a present for you,” he says, and drops a bag of candy into his lap. He does keep candy around for himself, the rare craving he gets, but he keeps a lot of it around—hidden of course—for Starsky.

“Hutch,” Starsky says, in a voice that’s mock-struck, and yet genuinely heartfelt. “You _do_ care.”

With a hand already plunged into the bag, Starsky leans closer in his immediate, heartfelt reaction, and then offers second pick to Hutch once he’s got a chocolate for himself. He might have a predilection toward salty things, but Starsky’s sweet tooth is the quickest way to his heart.

Hutch holds up a hand. “I’m good, baby, thanks. You go to town.”

He wonders, for more than an instant, what the chocolate would taste like on Starsky’s lips, and he lets that thought soothe him more than actual chocolate could. He slides back and to one side, and lifts his legs up and into Starsky’s lap, sliding down and getting cozy. Starsky’s core is warm and solid, and it makes Hutch feel loose and relaxed to be touching him. “You want a blanket?”

Starsky drapes his arm over the back of the couch behind Hutch’s shoulders, giving his neck an affectionate squeeze as his face lights up with a satisfied smile, around the mouthful he’s still chewing. “Nah, I’m plenty warm.”

The closeness is _doing things_ in Starsky’s thoughts, warm, pleasant things. His eyes slide away from the bed, and he satisfies himself with the candy, forgetting about it as he remembers the way Hutch had looked at him, right over Linda, eyes only the barest blue rims around the black. Absently, his hand leaves the bag of candy, and rests on Hutch’s ankles, rubbing his way up under the hem of Hutch’s pants, while his palm presses warm against the back of his partner’s neck, distracting them both from the movie.

Starsky’s hands are warm, on his ankle and on the back of his neck. Hutch is watching Starsky’s hand curl around his ankles, watching his jaw and lips working over the candy.

It takes a monumental effort to turn away from him, and back to the movie, but it does allow him to say, “You know if this gets any scarier, I might end up all the way in your lap.”

“What’s so scary about a guy in a rubber suit?” Starsky asks; he doesn’t have to look away from the screen. He manages a light tone, humorous,and seems to remember he’s supposed to be watching the movie. “Besides, we’ve been through scarier. You know I’d hold you until the worst was over.”

Hutch grins, fond and just so in love with this man, in every way that it is possible to love. He reaches up to squeeze his shoulder.

“I know you would, partner,” Hutch says, and at least attempts to turn back to the movie.

They even make it through  most of it, before Starsky’s wandering thoughts go too far south and he has to shift Hutch’s feet a little. His partner’s all loose now, permissive when Starsky shifts under him like it’s just a wave to float over in a raft. He wonders if the lines they’d crossed last week maybe were ones they shouldn’t have. Then again, he was actually pretty sure this was all indestructible.

The third time Starsky looks over and meets Hutch’s eyes, he reaches out and gets his hand into the front of Hutch’s shirt and pulls their bodies together on sheer instinct, then pulls up short, just a little shy of their mouths actually meeting. It’s not the closest they’ve ever been.

It's not exactly comfortable being folded in half like this, but Hutch curls his knees in slightly and thanks this morning's yoga for allowing him to feel Starksy's breath against his lips, to smell the chocolate on his mouth.

He thinks he should ask, check that this is really what Starksy wants, say something. But their best communication has always been nonverbal, and Hutch could drown in those sad blue eyes. He palms the side of Starksy's cheek, runs fingers through his hair, and leans in for a kiss, soft and short, little more than a peck on the lips.

As usual, they’re doing the same dance at a slightly different pace, but with expert confidence. Each stepping where the other didn’t, moving right around each other. Starsky’s hands ease once around Hutch’s shoulders, and then he shifts, and presses the same sort of middle-school kiss back against Hutch’s mouth, playing it with a grin, like the whole thing was just the way they were together and it could be a joke if either of them wanted it to.

But neither of them do.

“We should go to bed, babe,” Starsky says. Normal. Just like every other time it’s been a week after they half-fucked each other for a girl.

Hutch grins, that broad, expansive, permissive grin, the one that is almost exclusively reserved for Starsky, who makes him smile like no one else does.

“What's this? You kicking me off your couch?” he teases, but of course it's a serious question, too. Now he lies back, grabbing Starsky by his lapels and dragging him down on top of him while their legs tangle up together.

And if Hutch just keeps kissing him when his partner's mouth comes down on top of him, well.

There’s just an instant where Starsky hesitates, because—it was one thing when there was a girl around, but now they had no real excuse. It’s just them, together in the dim glow of the television. There’s no moment when Starsky rejects the idea, it’s just something that he’d thought was past him. A phase in high school where he’d played football and liked looking at the other guys on his team and then just at the same time he’d stopped, it was over.

“Huh,” is all Starsky says, as a little light turns on in his brain and he realizes this is something between them that could happen. Maybe _should_ happen. He gets his arms around Hutch’s middle and the couch creaks and Hutch is all hard planes but Starsky knows the unpadded expanse of his hips and the broad curve of his back well enough. Then he leans in for another kiss, and it’s a little bit of teeth and a long time coming.

Hutch can feel the pause, the hesitation, and he is prepared to pull back, to let it go, but then Starsky makes a soft sound of assent and Hutch feels him give, feels the heat of him curling around him. He shifts to let Starsky hold him how he wants, to let it go at his pace (because, yeah, this isn't new for him, being with a man isn't new, being with a man he loves isn't even new, Ken Hutchinson has a lot of love to give), and then gets his own arm up around Starsky’s shoulders and really kisses him, like they're watching _Gone with the Wind_ and not a monster movie.

“Starsk,” he begins, when they part, except talking might be a bad idea and he regrets it.

“Yeah?” Starsky asks, like there are no bad ideas between them at all. (Untrue in both their experiences, but not this one.)  His head feels a little hazy, but it’s not the beer it’s just—lust and magnetism and memories. He’s getting his hand under Hutch’s shirt before he remembers that hey, his ma raised a nice boy. “This okay?”

Hutch laughs, a tension release laugh, but his smile is broad and genuine.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing Starsky’s neck and working a hand up into his hair, thick and lush between his fingers. “Yeah, Starsk. This is okay.”

There’s a lot going on with Hutch’s face and so Starsky watches it, the way his eyes go heavy lidded when Starsky presses his palms over Hutch’s sides, which pretty much echoes the way he feels with Hutch’s hands pressing into his hair, over his back. He shifts his hips to seat them together a little better, already a little resentful of the front of his jeans for being so tight.

Then the monster on TV roars, and Starsky has to pause to laugh, still hanging onto Hutch, but pressing his forehead against his T-shirt. “Hey, if we’re gonna do this, aren’t we both a little over dressed?”

“Don't talk to me about being overdressed, you're the slob,” Hutch replies, tone playful, teasing, and he curls his hand into a fist in Starsky’s hair to push him into another kiss, this one mostly teeth because they're both grinning. “Maybe we take this to the bed? Godzilla’s not really getting me in the mood.”

Starsky takes his revenge for Hutch’s remarks with a warning twinge of his fingers right over the vulnerable ticklish points on Hutch’s sides. “What’s not to love? Mortal peril, giant rubber monsters, total destruction…the company’s agreeable at least.”

Hutch pulls his elbows in with a grunt: he is very ticklish, and hated it, but Starsky stopped almost immediately. “Sounds like our day job.”

With a wink, Starsky hoists himself up off the couch, pulling Hutch up with him. He’s heavy, but they balance each other. “Not that we got far to go.”

“Nah. Come on.” Hutch pulls his partner into his bedroom—clean, minimalist, modern—and turns on a lamp by the bed and tugging the curtains closed. They’re discreet enough, but let in light from a street lamp outside (and the sunlight in the morning).

There’s no sense of deja vu from last week that Hutch kind of expects. It’s all too different. They’re more sober this time, and it’s actually dark outside, and they’re not any more giggly or goofy than normal, not trying to show off for a girl. It’s just—them, normal, getting naked together.

“Don’t take them off,” Hutch says, when Starsky’s hands go for his jeans. “Let me.”

It’s more intimate than the last time, and there’s no excuse. No excuse for them not to look at each other, no excuse for them not to touch each other. Starsky reaches for Hutch’s shirt and pulls it off over his head, but lets Hutch take command of the rest. “So, hey, I haven’t done anything like this since high school.”

Honesty has always been the best policy between them and Starsky delivers this one with a crooked grin and an earnestness that suggests the levity of his tone covers over some small nervousness. If the way his underwear bulges when Hutch undoes his zipper is any indicator, that’s no damper on his enthusiasm.

“I don’t see that being a problem,” Hutch says, his smile soft and eyes eager. Starsky’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and the bed is low enough that Hutch can kneel in front of him, between his legs, and kiss him down onto his back. He breaks just long enough that he can slide Starsky’s jeans down and off his feet, and then crawls on top of him to kiss him again, like the five seconds apart was too long. They slide together, side by side, kissing, touching, half-dressed and sprawled sideways on the bed. “I have condoms in the drawer. We should…”

But he goes back to kissing him, getting his hands in that gorgeous, thick mane, rubbing his back, squeezing his ass. “I mean, you were fine last time, Starsky. You’re just fine.”

“Yeah?” Starsky asks, encouraged, with his hands over the perfect definition of Hutch’s ass in his jeans. He likes that feeling, likes how Hutch fills out his jeans and Starsky’s hands both. He let Hutch pull his shirt off, revealing nothing he hasn’t seen before and yet this time it’s just for Hutch. Starsky gave a shove, pushing Hutch over onto his back. “Well I’m not so sure about your standards, buddy.”

Hutch sucks on his lip in the absence of Starsky’s. His partner is all thick muscles and dark hair, going up his arms and his chest, and a perfect happy trail disappearing under his briefs. “You insulting my taste, baby?”

Starsky gave an almost savage yank to the button at the top of Hutch’s fly when it refused to yield immediately, and then gave up and just palmed over Hutch’s cock through his pants. He’d wanted to last week, but they’d only done what she’d told them to. Starsky gives him a half-wild grin after his first efforts to get into Hutch’s pants failed, and just rubs him through the material. “Promise me you won’t think less of me in the morning, huh?”

“Ha!” Hutch laughs, undoing his pants and arching his hips up into Starsky’s hands to slide them off. He groans appreciatively, as Starsky seems to know his way around his cock like they’ve done this a hundred times. “Are we gonna have to declare this in the office? Conflict of interest?”

It’s a joke—but there’s a conversation in there, a serious one, that they’ll have later—and Hutch surges up to smack their mouths together. Starsky’s chin is rough with stubble, and his skin is warm, and he’s a heavy weight on his thighs. He moans softly, trailing into a vulnerable whimper—not a sound he’s sure his partner has ever heard before. “Mm, fuck, Starsky. Condoms. Condoms in the—behind you.”  

“Yeah,” Starsky agrees, breathless, eyes glued to Hutch’s body, sleek and smooth and looking like he took care of it. It was different, it turned out, when Starsky was allowed to touch it. Well, without clothes between. This might eventually be an issue, like Hutch had just said, but right now, it wasn’t worth worrying about. “Yeah, I got, uh…”

He paws his way into Hutch’s ridiculous wooden end table, which looked like it had been made out of a tree stump, and had yet another plant on top of it. He fished around, and came up with the box, distracted by the way Hutch’s voice went all rough and husky when he wanted something, and also by the way his own fist looked around Hutch’s cock, pink and eager. He passes a still-connected strip to Hutch, since his hands aren’t busy.

“Sweet Jesus,” Hutch says, when he’s sat up enough to reach into Starsky’s briefs and really get a hand on the size of him. Then he laughs, embarrassed by his outburst. He knows he’s flushed red from the tip of his cock to his cheeks. His chest is even warm.

“I don’t think he’s listening,” Starsky rumbles, leaning down to kiss the edge of the flushed skin on Hutch’s chest.

Instead of more words, Hutch opens the packet with his teeth and rolls one onto Starsky, and then himself. Even if they’re just fooling around, he’s not taking any chances, though once their underwear comes off he’s also thinking about the lube he has in the same drawer pretty covetously.

“Okay, come here, you big lug, before I get any other crazy ideas,” he says, grabbing the back of Starsky’s neck and drawing him into a biting kiss.

“What kind of crazy are we talking?” Starsky wonders, with a grunt, as their bodies really tangle in together now and he can get his cock lined up alongside Hutch’s and that’s _right_ where he’s wanted it all along. He feels like a teenager again, like he’s fooling around in the back of his parent’s car (and _there’s_ an idea, with the Torino sitting right out there in the driveway, but it’s an idea for _later)_ and he’s only going to make it about ten seconds before it’s all over, it’s so good.

Instead he gets a hand around both of them, with the rubberized condoms sliding and catching just a little, before Starsky gets the bright idea of applying a little spit to his palm and then to them via transference.

“Y-you’re the crazy one,” Hutch grunts, voice low and strained, their hands fumbling between them like this is the first time either of them have done this, except that they move in sync, as always, reading each other’s thoughts, it seems, panting breaths. “G-god, stop, I’m gonna—I wanna blow you, Starss.”

“You sure know how to sweet talk a—”

Hutch shoves his partner over, and Starsky lets him, rolling against the pillows with a dopey smile on his face that makes Hutch fall in love with him all over again, like he has every day since the first day they met.

“Hang on, I got you, baby.” Hutch lays his hands on Starsky’s thighs to brace him as he considers how he’ll get him in his mouth, and then he laughs abruptly. “You’re a grower not a shower, huh?”

Starsky laughs, pulls  Hutch up to kiss him on his dirty mouth. “You weren’t looking last week? You got nothing to be ashamed of, partner. You got a good four inches on me.”

A dramatic pause, while Starsky shifts up, rolls his hips up against Hutch’s body. “In _height_ that is.”

Hutch falls to laughing, which is not conducive to trying to suck your partner's cock, so he snorts rather obscenely and has to pull back. “Damn it, Starsky!”

Anyway it's his girth that really has Hutch impressed, and no he was not looking, because he was trying to be a gentleman, and, “If I _had_ looked, this might not have taken a whole week.”

Starsky had no choice but to chuckle along, because his moods and Hutch’s have always keyed to each other that way, and then quickly they’re both giggling and giddy, and Starsky has to stop to catch his breath.  It’s like this huge relief for both of them that they’ve started to figure this out.

“I guess we do need somebody bossing us around,” Starsky says hoisting Hutch up far enough to get a hand on his cock again. “Else all we do is fool around.”

Hutch is still grinning, like everything about Starsky delights him utterly, because it does. “I knew you liked that kinky stuff. Now shut up and let me suck your cock.”

He pauses, briefly. “Really, _I_ have to stop talking to—”

But then Starsky pushes his head down, and the taste of lubricated condom isn’t anything to write home about, but the heavy weight on his tongue is sinful, and he moans, working him deep quickly, and stroking him with his free hand.

Tossing his head back against the pillow, Starsky groans and reaches up to get his hand onto the headboard to hang on. It’s not really like he expected. Sure he’s had girls do this before, but they weren’t _Hutch_ and usually not anywhere near as enthusiastic. More important, he never felt as completely open as he did right now. They don’t have to pretend for each other. Starsky shifts and moves, like every touch was pulling something in him, with his head thrown back and eyes closed because he wants to keep it together for more than five seconds.

Starsky gets a grip on Hutch’s shoulder and squeezes a pulse rhythm into his skin, a slow but winding-up warning. “Hey buddy, don’t know how long you want this to last, but…”

It’s low and raw and a little slurred, but the message is clear that Starsky’s about a half step away from orgasm, by all the undulating kineticism in him.

Hutch gives a little nod and makes a sound of assent, swallowing Starsky to the root now and rolling his balls in his fingers until he comes apart.

Oh, he really wishes they didn’t have to worry about condoms, wanting to at least _taste_ him. But Hutch strokes him through orgasm and then rolls the condom off and ties it as he surges up to kiss him, open-mouthed and wet. Starsky sprawls loose and pliant beneath him, so unlike his usually wound-up self that it almost makes Hutch giggle. “That’s it, baby, I got you. I got you, partner.”

Absently, Starsky reaches for Hutch, manages to get an uncoordinated hand around the back of his neck and kisses him slow and deep enough that he can taste the latex, and then Hutch’s mouth, and then he can get a hand between them and open his eyes and _watch_ Hutch as he strokes his cock.

“‘Course you got me. And I got you,” Starsky agrees. “How come us two geniuses didn’t come up with this a little sooner?”

Probably, part the first, because Hutch drew ladies in like flies to fine southern honey, and part the second because they could get in trouble for all this, if Starsky didn’t know that if what they had before hadn’t affected their work in anything other than the positive, this wasn’t going to change it.

“Mm, yeah,” Hutch groans, going weak at Starsky’s touch and collapsing against him (there’s a reason he wanted to take care of Starsky first, because now he’s actually, literally, dizzy with lust). “Yeah, I dunno, Starsk. I’m—hnn—supposed to be the smart one, huh?”

He finds a point on Starsky’s neck and sucks, raising a little mark there, moaning and digging his fingers into Starsky’s hip like he’s holding on for dear life as he rushes toward that crest.

“I thought you were the cute one,” Starsky groans, rolling his own hips up as he feels Hutch near release, as much for the points of pressure and faint pain in the mark, all these things grounding and centering Starsky in the here and now, and the fact that it’s _really_ Hutch there with him. “And I was the smart one.”

“No, no, I’m—” Hutch tries, but he forgets halfway through what they’re arguing over, and gives a little gasp as his stomach and thigh muscles jump. “Starsk—”

Finally coordinated enough to push Hutch over onto his back, Starsky crouches over him with his fist on Hutch’s cock pulling firm, insistent strokes, and his other hand soothing Hutch’s hair out of his face, pushing his calloused thumb over Hutch’s cheekbones, smoothing his creasing brows, and looking at him like he was the finest thing Starsky had ever seen. It was amazing the way his face changed; Hutch’s mouth got all soft, the muscles in his neck stood out, his eyes got darker and he swallowed like he couldn’t get enough air and then just the faintest flash of his teeth as he came. His eyes were beautiful when they went unfocused and lost for those few long seconds.

“You know, I think there’s probably a greek statue somewhere that’s offended you just took the good looks title,” Starsky says, poetically mushy because he’s just had an incredible orgasm, and he’s pretty sure Hutch won’t remember it in five minutes anyway.

“Shh,” Hutch says, pressing his face into Starsky’s palm, kissing it reverently. He’d gotten one arm up around Starsky’s shoulders, and the other clung to his hip, but his grip was loose now. “Kiss me, baby.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Starsky drawls, but he does, and _that’s_ good. Like he can pull all the aftermath from his own release back to him, and settle down into it with Hutch, though the pair of them eventually have to shift to get the condom off him and tied off, they just collapse together afterward, tangled up and still kissing, slow and deep.

“I knew I loved you for a long time, buddy,” Hutch gasps, in between kisses, as Starsky pulls a blanket up over them and Hutch puts his long arms to good use to turn off the light. “I just didn’t know til now that I was _in_ love with you, too.”

“Seems like those two things are never all that far apart after all,” Starsky agrees, yawning.

Their hands wander, like they’re mapping each other in the dark, and the kisses slow until Hutch is curled up against Starsky’s shoulder, an arm and a leg thrown over the top of him, and Starsky’s tracing patterns in his shoulder.

“Say, you’re not gonna change your mind about making me sleep on the couch after all, right? ‘Cause I got better ideas than that busted spring for what I’d like to wake up with poking me in the backside,” Starsky says, clearly pleased with his own clever joke.

Hutch groans, this time offended by his partner’s terrible sense of humor. He grabs an extra pillow and plops it down on Starsky’s face. “If you keep trying to be funny, I will.”

…

The next morning, Hutch wakes at first light, still tangled up with Starsky, and he kisses his forehead as he gets up. His friend knows his routine, so he doesn’t need to leave a note, but dresses for his morning jog, drinks half a glass of orange juice, and runs.

It’s a good run, even if he’s a bit sore, and he beats his personal record. Every atom is singing, and he feels like he could run forever—the only thing that prevents him from running forever is his rumbling stomach and the knowledge that Starsky will be awake soon, and that he’ll be able to kiss him again.

It’s a bit of a disappointment, then, when Starsky is _still_ asleep, at 9am! They’ve been at work for an hour on a regular day. But this is Saturday, so he supposes a little spoiling is in order. Maybe he’ll make waffles with sugar in them today, he thinks, as he gets into the shower to rinse off and relax his twitching muscles.

It’s the smell of soap and the distant sound of running water that wakes Starsky up at last, and he experiences only a moment of disorientation as he wakes up in an unexpected place in familiar surroundings, and his body’s got that pleasant fuzzy-worn-out feeling it does after good sex. He gets up and pours himself a cup of coffee, without bothering to get dressed, and follows Hutch into the bathroom.

“You know, keeping a little half and half in your fridge wouldn’t kill you,” Starsky says, stepping into the shower with Hutch, coffee mug and all. He leans in to kiss Hutch’s cheek. “Did you have a good run, babe? All your muscles still working after your mind was blown?”

Briefly startled by the other presence in his shower, Hutch takes no time to melt against Starsky, returning the kiss even though he's got soap in his eyes.

“Yeah, baby,” he says, soft and permissive, washing soap out of his hair. “Yeah, you should come with. You look good in shorts.”

“I get all my running in on the clock,” Starsky says, leaning in under the spray to wet his hair down as Hutch gets comfortable with the idea of two of them in the confined space. It still doesn’t feel crowded, somehow.

Now he can see him, he gets his arms around Starsky and smiles. “You sleep okay?”

Then he fakes like he's going in for a kiss, only to steal a gulp of coffee.

Starsky rolls his eyes and lets Hutch. “That’s how you know I care, you know. Anybody else tried to eat my food for me, I’d arrest them for property theft.”

They move around each other like they were choreographed, but Starsky doesn’t bother holding back on all the touching this time, running his hands over Hutch’s body when the impulse calls to him or settling one hand on Hutch’s hip as Starsky retrieves his own bottle of shampoo conditioner, a longstanding fixture in Hutch’s house for, well, maybe not just such an occasion. They both drink half the cup of coffee, handing it back and forth around the motions of getting themselves scrubbed up, and Starsky assesses where he’s at shave-wise with a brush of fingers under his own chin.

“So, uh,” Starsky makes an attempt to come around toward something like the conversation that needs to happen. “First of all, you’re not gonna feed me anything with wheatgrass in it for breakfast, right? Second of all, you said something about conflict of interest. You think we gotta worry about that?”

“What, you don't like wheat grass waffles?” Hutch laughs, and kisses him, and comes out of it serious. “I don't think we gotta worry about that. I was joking before. If I'm any more or less likely to do something stupid trying to keep you safe, us fucking won't have anything to do with it.”

He pauses, though, and shuts off the water, steam whirling around them. Starsky’s hair is close to his head and curly, and Hutch is nearly overcome by how much he wants him, like this, forever. “What do you think, Starsky?”

“I think you’ve got it right. I already would have risked my hide for you,” Starsky admits, like it’s anything new at all (it isn’t). “And you’ve done the same thing. We’re still good cops. Besides, it’s not like you could withhold a promotion for sexual favors.”

Starsky pauses, and then leans casually against the shower wall. “Not that I’d mind it if you did.”

Hutch laughs and grabs Starsky by the cheeks to kiss him again. “Well, let me out of here so you won't withhold sexual favors for waffles. Whole grain! But no wheat grass. I'll even put sugar in ‘em just for you, boy. You'll like ‘em.”

“Well that sounds like half a meal,” Starsky says, but with a lazy smile that says he’ll forgive Hutch for the lack of bacon just this once.

They towel off, and Hutch pulls on jeans but neglects a shirt, and bustles into the kitchen while Starsky rummages for some of his clothes that Hutch keeps for him for when he invariably stays over. What _has_ changed about their relationship, really?

“I guess we can't publish it too widely, though,” Hutch considers, once Starsky has joined him and hopped up onto the counter with a new cup of coffee. “I could see a jealous lover trying to kill me over you.”

“More like all your exes ganging up on me. Death by a thousand cuts,” Starsky says, leaning back against the cabinets and watching Hutch cook with his usual half-fascinated-half-affronted look. “Or we get murdered by one of those bigots we spend all day trying to lock up. I don’t think this is anybody’s business but our business, right?”

“I mean, I’m not _worried_ ,” Hutch says, but neither of them are ever worried. “We’re not little old lesbians, or queer kids. Anyone stupid enough to try a—a _hate crime_ on a pair of _cops_ , ya know?—they’ll get what’s coming to ‘em.”

“We got some pretty stupid criminals in this town,” Starsky says, watching Hutch work, but he doesn’t sound worried either. Maybe _because_ Bay City might be a half step shy of LA’s armpit, but it was their city.

Hutch pours a waffle on the griddle and leans against the counter, putting his hand in Starsky’s lap so he’ll take it. “Yeah. It’s no one’s business but ours. I like that.”  

Starsky puts his hand firmly in Hutch’s, and there’s nothing new there except a half step more in how comfortable they are together. “Besides, if I know you, you’ll be in love again next week. I like that about you.”

It had never changed anything between them in the past, and Starsky doesn’t see why it would now. Probably the only reason they hadn’t gone this far any sooner was because they didn’t want to mess up what they already had.

“You promise you’ll hold me when I get my heart broken again?” Hutch laughs, a nervous release of air. He wants to know that Starsky will be there, always, just like he’ll be there for him, always, no matter how many other people he’s there for in between.

“Always,” Starsky says, with a confident grin. “Me and thee, buddy, like always.”

After all, why _shouldn’t_ this be easy? No sense making things hard now when they were going so good. “We got enough hard stuff in our lives already without making things tough for each other, right?”

“Me and thee,” Hutch echoes, and the waffle iron beeps, so he has to let go his hand to free a waffle.

“There’s cinnamon in them, and sugar. I even have syrup!” Hutch says. It’s a game they play: Starsky complaining about his rabbit food, and Hutch giving him a hard time about his junk food, while they also try to spoil each other. Right now, though the coffee is black, Starsky has a waffle drowning in syrup and butter. “Do you like it?”

Starsky doesn’t pause to answer before digging in, and his response comes through his mouthful, approving.

**Author's Note:**

> May: well i'm gonna have to buy S1 of Starsky and Hutch  
> Cog: ahaha victory  
> May: you're a bad man  
> Cog: awesome  
> Cog: I blame the boys for being so pretty


End file.
